


The Lost BBC Robin Hood Christmas Episode,  Or, That Time Allan a Dale Accidentally Became Santa Claus

by museumofflight



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: BBC Robin Hood Secret Santa 2015, Christmas Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:52:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museumofflight/pseuds/museumofflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allan falls down a chimney and learns the true meaning of Christmas. Or St. Nicholas. Or Robin Hood. Or some combination of the three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost BBC Robin Hood Christmas Episode,  Or, That Time Allan a Dale Accidentally Became Santa Claus

**Author's Note:**

> 2015 BBC RH Secret Santa fic for Tumblr user readinginaforest! Everybody Lives!AU-ish, although that part is only alluded to, and only at the very end. Also, despite all the stuff about faith and God, I'm actually an agnostic. But y'know. It's Christmas.

It’s compline bells on the Feast of St. Nicholas, and Allan a Dale is stuck halfway down the Nottingham Castle kitchen chimney.

He’s covered in soot and sweat, and his fingerhold on the chimney wall is slipping, but the only thing he’s really concerned about as the last bell echoes around him is the poker prodding him insistently in the arse.

“Well, are you going up or coming down, then?” demands a voice, high and young, and surprisingly matter-of-fact. Not at all the voice he expected to be attached to the other end of that poker. “It’s cold in here, you know, but I’d rather not kill anybody with smoke when I light a fire. Even a burglar.” There’s a pause, followed by an especially vehement jab of the poker. “Well?”

Allan yelps, four fingers losing their grip on the wall. “All right, all right, I’m coming down--” two more fingers slip--“I’m falling, now, clear out of the way!”

There’s a squeak and a shuffle below him, and then the world is swallowed in a cloud of choking black cinders.

***

It started (as so many of Allan’s troubles have) with a mendicant friar.

He had strolled into Nottingham market three days before, shiny-tonsured and silver-tongued, spinning a yarn about daughters and dowries and charity. It was a wonder he hadn’t been arrested on the spot, really--only it’s nearly Christmastide. Even the Sheriff has a heart at Christmas. Well, maybe not a heart. But he has a canny eye, and he can see the hearts that others wear more freely on their sleeves this time of year. 

Point is, that was the only thing Allan had noticed about that mendicant friar at the time--that he stayed a mendicant friar, instead of an involuntarily-cloistered-in-the-dungeons friar. He was a passing curiosity. Background noise as he and the gang went about the weekly handouts; a cheerful little story to distract everyone from how cold and hungry they were. St. Nicholas, tossing dowries through windows and down chimneys to save girls from the brothels, to hide his humble face from recognition or thanks--if only we had a St. Nicholas here, now, in Nottingham, to save us all from starvation! Allan had hardly registered the whispers at the time, more worried about getting his parcels to his designated drop-offs as quickly as he could so that he could return to his own fire and food.

Allan, of all people, should have remembered that it’s when you let your vigilance lapse that things always take turn for the worse.

***

That evening, Robin was moody. He stared into the fire and didn’t eat his dinner.

“We are Robin Hood.”

“That’s right, master, we are Robin Hood,” Much repeated back, automatic, not looking up from scouring the stewpot. “We are all Robin Hood, every one of us. Did you finish your dinner?”

Robin’s head snapped up. In retrospect, that was when Allan should have twigged that something was amok. But Djaq was trimming his hair and Will was working on the lute he’d promised him, and he was warm and full, and in the glow of such comfort the glint in Robin’s eye seemed to be merely the fire, and the unease the pit of Allan’s stomach seemed to be merely the three-day-old venison that went into that night’s stew.

“Master?”

“No.”

Much put down the stewpot in exasperation. “Master, how many times do I have to remind you, you must eat--”

“No,” Robin repeated. A slow, crafty smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “No, we aren’t Robin Hood. Not at Christmas. At Christmas….” He paused to look each member of the gang in the eye, one by one. “...we are St. Nicholas.”

Little John cleared his throat. “We are…”

“St. Nicholas?” Djaq finished. “The one from the friar’s story today? The one who tossed dowries through windows?”

“Chimneys,” snapped Much, glaring at Robin.

“It was both,” Will said slowly. 

“That’s the one, lads. St. Nicholas. He saw those in need, and he gave what he could to relieve them.”

“Not bein’ funny, but isn’t that what we do every day? Robbin’ from the rich and givin’ to the poor and all that?” 

Robin pinned Allan with an earnest look, and Allan felt the venison drop to the pit of his stomach, twisting all the way. It was the look that said that Robin had An Idea. “What’s the most important lesson of the St. Nicholas story, lads?” he asked softly, not taking his eyes off Allan.

“Close your shutters, or some daft git will throw things through them,” muttered Allan.

“A woman cannot escape being bought by a man,” Djaq said.

“Charity and faith, lads,” Robin said. “True charity and faith. Giving to those in need without expectation of thanks, and belief that God is looking out for us all.” Robin stood up to take his rousing speech stance, eyes alight, arms out and palms open. “That is what we need to give the people of Nottingham this Christmastide. You’re right, Allan, we do give them material gifts every day--money, food, fuel--and in our way, we give them hope, but we are only men--” Djaq cleared her throat “--and women, only humans. We’re fallible; we could be caught, killed. The people need to have faith that all will be well, that they have something to rely on more than human whim or Robin Hood.” 

Allan crossed his arms. “So, the Night Watchman, then?” Will snickered softly.

Robin shook his head. “A miracle, lads. We’re going to give them a Christmas miracle.” 

“We’re going to throw money through windows, aren’t we,” Much said flatly.

“And chimneys,” Robin agreed, grinning. “You don’t honestly think we could get close enough to the castle servants’ quarters windows to toss money through them without getting caught, do you?”

***

Robin Hood was the other primary source of troubles in his life, along with mendicant friars, Allan reflected three nights later as he shimmied up the castle kitchen roof on his belly with a sack of parcels of full of coins and food over his shoulder. It only stood to reason that the two of them would eventually join forces to land him in the most ridiculous situation he’d ever been in in his life. Robin Hood and mendicant friars and his own mouth. He hadn’t even pulled that chimney caper in Lincoln, that had been Tom and his boys, and he’d told Tom at the time how daft the idea was. But it was a great story. Djaq and Robin had been so impressed. 

He glanced back at the ground, scouting for guards, then stood up to contemplate the chimney. Wide enough for Little John, still warm to the touch even hours after dinner had ended. He dropped the sack down before him just as the first compline bell sounded, swinging a leg over the side.

If Tom and his daft cronies could pull off a robbery, Allan a Dale should have no trouble with a little miracle.

***

When Allan finally clears his eyes and lungs enough to take in his surroundings, internally cursing mendicant friars and St. Nicholas and Robin Hood and everything else that landed him in the castle kitchen hearth with a sore arse and a faceful of cinders and ash, there is a small, skinny girl, no more than ten or eleven years old, sitting on the floor opposite him. She has one bare foot, the missing shoe sitting on the floor next to the poker, which looks to be about half her height and more than half her weight. She raises her eyes from the sock she is fiddling with, her wide brown eyes equal parts amused and suspicious. 

“It’s a good thing you dropped your burglin’ sack first, or you’d’ve broke your bum,” she says, conversational, poking her finger through a hole in the sock and frowning at it. 

“It’s too bad burglin’ sacks save bums and not dignity,” Allan grumbles, shifting to pull the sack out from underneath himself to assess the damage. The gold will survive, but Allan can’t imagine the bread did. Maybe that can be part of the miracle. God sent bread like the Jews have--wotsit--unleavened. De-leavened.

“These are the kitchens, you know,” the girl continues. “Long way from the good stuff, the jewels and so on. Lots of guards between you and your burglin’.” 

Allan scowls. “I’m not a burglar.” She raises her eyebrows at him. “Look, if I had wanted jewels and gold, I wouldn’t have come in through the kitchens.”

She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. “So you’re here to take our food.”

“What? No!” Her hand inches towards the poker again. “If I wanted to steal food, there are easier ways than goin’ down the castle chimney.”

“So you are a thief!” She grabs the poker. 

“No! Well--only--” He huffs. “I’m a reverse burglar.” She frowns. He takes a deep breath, widening his eyes, trying to channel all of Robin’s earnestness and conviction. “Y’know--burglars break in and take stuff away from them that have too much, right? Only I break in and leave stuff behind for people who don’t have enough.” 

“So, you’re like…the Night Watchman.”

“Or Robin Hood, yeah.” He smiles at her. “Do-gooder, like.” 

“They don’t use chimneys, though. And they thieve from the castle.” Her grip tightens on the poker, and she looks over her shoulder towards stairs out of the kitchens. She’s thinking of calling for a guard, Allan realizes, and panic squeezes his chest.

“No!” She shifts a little, starts to get up, and Allan’s mind spins. “Look, look, listen,” he begins, grabbing her by the skirt and simultaneously reaching behind him to grab one of the parcels from his sack. “If I were a burglar, why would I come in with money and food, eh?” He lets go of her skirt to open the parcel so she can see the wealth within: a few coins, a partly-smashed loaf of bread, some dried fruit and venison, a pair of thick woolen socks. Her lips part and a faint flush comes to her cheeks, her eyes flaring for a moment with something bright--greed, maybe, or just hunger. “For you,” Allan says, gently. 

Her face shutters instantly. “For my silence?” she whispers. Her eyes lock with his. They are blank and hard again, mistrustful. But for a moment--just as second or two--the hardness wavers, and Allan can see in them the child he once was, scared, hungry, alone, without a thing in the world that he didn’t either snatch for himself or have snatched away from him. A child who didn’t believe in gifts, because to receive a gift you have to have faith that it is given without expectation of exchange, or threat of loss. He thinks of Will’s hands working deftly at his lute, Djaq’s hands in his hair; he thinks of Much mending the hole in Robin’s cloak for the tenth time, of Robin saving his life, of Marian under her mask, creeping through the night. Of St. Nicholas, tossing freedom from fear and pain through open windows. Of gifts, given freely.

He clears his throat. “What’s your name?” She looks at him skeptically, and he shoots a beseeching look back at her. 

“Ellen,” she finally relents. 

“Ellen?” She nods, and he smirks. “Good name. Okay, Ellen. Do you know what day it is?”

“Saturday?”

“The Feast of St. Nicholas. Have you heard the story of St. Nicholas?”

She makes a face. “Is he the one that threw money down chimneys to help young girls?” Her eyes widen and her mouth forms an astonished O, and Allan knows the second before it comes out of her mouth what she thinks she has just discovered. “Are you St. Nicholas? Are you here to help me?”

Allan grins, relaxing for the first time since he crawled up the kitchen roof. This, he can roll with. “Yep, you got it! Jolly ol’ Saint Nick, that’s me, doin’ the Nottingham rounds.” He holds the parcel out to her again. “And here’s your gift, Ellen, from St. Nick to you.”

A smile flashes across her face, chased quickly by a troubled frown. She balls her hands into fists. “But I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

“Nah, but you don’t have to.” She slants him a quizzical look. “That’s what makes it a gift, see?” He shakes the parcel at her. “I’m givin’ it to you because I want you to have it. Because--because--” he falters a bit, watching the tremble at the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not supposed to be in here,” she whispers. “I sleep on the hearth because it’s warmer than my bed in the attic, but I’m not supposed to. And I--I steal bits from the kitchen stores sometimes--I just get so--”

“Ellen, Ellen,” Allan interrupts, “that’s why you get this, see? So you’re not so cold and hungry. You don’t have to do anything to pay for it, and you didn’t have to do anything to earn it, other than just bein’ here. Because God doesn’t want you to be shiverin’ and starvin’ on His son’s birthday. And I don’t want you to be shiverin’ and starvin’ on my feast day.” He puts the package in her hands. “You havin’ a full belly and warmer feet, that’s all we want. One less person with an empty belly and cold feet. Besides, sounds to me like you’ve been a very good girl. Nothin’ wrong with stealin’ from the Sheriff.” He grins conspiratorially at her and taps her on the nose.

She giggles and sniffles. “So I can just...have this?” She stares at the parcel reverently.

Allan straightens up and cracks his back. “Yep,” he replies absently, surveying the state of his sack. “Because God loves you, and St. Nick does too, and Robin Hood and all that.” He turns around again in time to see her trying to put on the new socks and stuff dried venison in her mouth at the same time and suppresses a snort of laughter. “Speaking of...you wouldn’t happen to know the best way into the servants’ quarters, would you? Only I’ve got all these other gifts to get to the rest of the cold and hungry.”

“Aren’t saints supposed to be magic?” she asks drily around the wad of venison in her mouth. But she’s smiling, and standing up to put her shoes back on.

“Who says I’m not magic?” Allan retorts. “I might’ve fallen down that chimney, but I flew onto the roof.”

“Flew.”

“With wings and everythin’. But now they’re tired from all that flyin’, so. Back staircase, or somethin’?” 

She tilts her head to the side, considering. “Does helping you make me an apprentice saint? Or a living angel, or something?”

Allan laughs and picks up the sack. “Nah, that takes special consideration from the Holy Host. Lots of meetin’s and paperwork. You wouldn’t even want it, by the end.” She stuffs a piece of dried fruit in her mouth and pouts a little. “Look, what about an elf? A little magic, less responsibility. And all the mushrooms you can eat. Best offer I can make without an okay from the man upstairs.” 

She giggles, then tugs his sleeve. “Servants’ staircase is this way,” she says, mouth still full. The glow in her eyes is not from the moonlight, and Allan’s chest is so warm he doesn’t even feel the December drafts as they laugh and hush each other all the way up the stairs.

***

In the servants’ garrett, Allan watches Ellen slip an extra piece of dried venison from her own stash into a tiny boy’s shoe along with his parcel. He raises his eyebrows at her.

“He’s always staring at the meat in the kitchen. They’ve got him running to and fro all day, and he gets tired and stumbles and is punished with no dinner.” She shrugs. “Everyone should have a full belly on your feast day, right?” 

He ruffles her hair. “And every day, yeah. Remember, St. Nick is always lookin’ out for you. And Robin Hood, and the Night Watchman. We’re not gonna let you starve. You can have faith in that.”

She smiles at him, and in the dim light of the garrett he sees something bright in her eyes--hope, and maybe even trust. “I have faith in you,” she says.

***

It’s not quite the Christmas miracle that Robin had in mind. It’s not really a miracle at all. But the light in Ellen’s eyes in that moment carries him through the darkest moments of the years to come, through his mistakes and doubt, and that, he thinks to himself--watching his son and his son’s son exchanging gifts on the Feast of St. Nicholas in the twilight of his life--that might have been the true miracle, after all.


End file.
